Rhuddlan (28 page)

She had actually performed this operation
once before, on one of the mutts at the abbey. Some boys had been
playing, shooting arrows into trees and at birds flying high in the
sky, and then they had turned on the puppy that had been following
them around and shot at it. The dog had run away but not before
being struck in a flank. Her daughter, who had been watching this
vile game, had found the animal cowering under a wagon, gnawing at
the arrow shaft, picked it up and carried it unprotesting on
teetering three and a half-year-old legs to her to fix. She’d
tipped a little wine onto her hand and let the dog lick it off her
fingers. The puppy had grown drowsy, its senses dulled. With a
razor, she had scraped away the animal’s fur from the wound and
then had gently rocked the arrow shaft, pulling slowly up on it at
the same time until the arrowhead had popped out. She’d bathed the
wounded area with infusion of dried goldenrod and afterwards, with
not a little trepidation because she had never done so before, took
a thin sewing needle and thread and stitched the mouth of the wound
shut. To her daughter’s delight, the puppy was kept in the
storehouse for a week and watched whenever possible to see that it
didn’t tear at the stitches. She had been mildly surprised that the
procedure proved successful; its only ill effect was that by the
end of the week the dog had adopted Bronwen and she couldn’t get
rid of it.

The arrow point in the Norman was larger than
the one that had been stuck in the dog, now named Kigva in honor of
the cheerful, matronly woman who presided over the abbey’s kitchens
and filled Bronwen with immense admiration for her culinary
talents, and she decided to slip the tip of her knife down into the
wound and alongside it to help ease it upwards. She worked very
slowly and carefully; blood began to spurt again, filling the gap,
but she ignored it because she could feel the point shifting and
coming loose of whatever muscle had seized it. She took the knife
out and wiggled the arrow shaft tentatively; she felt it give and
she pulled.

The handsome knight returned just when she
had finished packing the puncture with dried moss and winding a
long strip of linen around the injured man’s neck to keep it in
place and put pressure on the wound so it would stop bleeding.
There were others with him. She didn’t turn around; she heard the
door slam and then their spurs clink urgently as they hurried to
the bed.

“What’s going on? What the hell have you
done?” Sir Richard demanded angrily. He looked down upon the
wounded man. “My God, he’s soaked in blood!” He whirled on her and
she, despite her previous bravado, now took a few steps backwards,
wary of his fury. “What did you do to him? Answer me!”

“I removed the arrow as you wanted, Sir
Richard,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm. She pointed
towards the foot of the bed. “There it is. You can see the entire
head came out, unbroken.”

Delamere snatched up the arrow and gestured
threateningly with it. “You weren’t to do anything unless I was
present! Look at all this blood! How do I know you haven’t caused
him to bleed to death?”

“He isn’t bleeding now, Sir Richard. Look for
yourself.”

She stood still, her arms down at her sides,
as he bent over the bed. Her heart was pounding with fright. So
many years spent in the peaceful atmosphere of the abbey…she had
forgotten the violence that was encouraged in these men. If the
handsome knight was displeased with her work, he would think little
of taking out his anger on her. But when he finally straightened up
he appeared to be satisfied, although his face remained grim.

“You weren’t to do anything unless I was
present,” he said again. But this time he wasn’t shouting.

“I’m sorry, Sir Richard,” she answered
meekly.

He hmphed and looked down at Longsword once
more.

“I would like to clean all the blood away.
Can you raise him while I remove his—this mass of metal he’s
wearing?” she asked.

“You’ll never get it off him; it’s too
heavy.” He signaled for one of the men who was with him to get
behind Longsword. They were far gentler than she would have
supposed rough men to be and they were quick. Within minutes they
had stripped Longsword to the skin.

The room was silent as she unwound the linen
from his neck and removed the soiled moss. She used the water
Delamere had brought and a fresh cloth to clean out the wound and
applied a poultice of sicklewort, warmed over the fire, to it and
held it fast with another wrapping of linen bandage. All the while,
she felt every eye watching her carefully and it made her
nervous.

“What next?” Delamere said suddenly,
startling her.

“I’ll have to change the poultice every few
hours. The sicklewort draws out the bad humors and prevents
festering and the poultice must remain fresh.” She glanced at him.
“The bedding is filthy. The linens must be changed as well.”

“I agree,” he said curtly.
“But this time
you
will fetch what you need and
I’ll
remain with Lord
William.”

The night passed slowly. Delamere dozed on
the stool, which he placed against the wall near Longsword’s bed so
that he was in her way and had to be wakened and asked to move
whenever she wanted to change the poultice. In this manner he was
able to observe her ministrations and satisfy himself that she
wasn’t poisoning the injured man or fouling the wound and could
afterward sleep easy for another two hours.

She didn’t sleep. She spent the hours making
up new poultices or washing out the soiled bandages and setting
them near the brazier to dry. Her sicklewort came from the forest.
The leaves were dried for future use in teas or syrups, while the
stalks were mashed and boiled in water until the mixture congealed.
She kept the jelly in a tightly closed earthen pot in a dark corner
of her quarters until some accident necessitated its use. To make a
poultice she mixed the jelly with a little barley meal, which gave
it an even consistency, and suet, which made it spreadable, put it
on a clean cloth, warmed it over the fire and applied it directly
to the wound.

The suet, which at St. Mary’s was primarily
from mutton, made a strong odor in the hot, closed room, but it was
a small inconvenience when weighed against the satisfactory effects
of the poultice. With each successive changing, she could see the
positive results of her labor. The bleeding had stopped long ago,
and the red, swollen mouth of the wound was clearly visible against
the Norman’s light skin. The first few poultices had drawn up pus;
now they came away clean. The neat lips of the puncture had come
together. She was pleased. A few days of observation, because the
danger of fever striking her patient was possible until the wound
healed sufficiently that air couldn’t get into it, and then she
would permit him to sit up and take solid foods.

Toward dawn he stirred and spoke. She had
finished changing the poultice and Delamere, instead of returning
to his seat, had gone outside to use the latrine. Longsword
suddenly groaned in his sleep and shifted position, thrusting his
arm out violently and knocking aside his blanket. She went to tidy
the bed and as she leaned across his chest to put his arm
underneath the cover, his hand clamped with surprising strength
around her wrist. Her eyes flew in consternation to his face; his
eyes were open and staring at her.

“Where am I?” he said to her in a hoarse
whisper. “What happened?”

“You were wounded, my lord,” she said. “It’s
all right now. You’re in the abbey of St. Mary.”

His breathing was labored. A spasm of pain
made his mouth twist, but he did not release her wrist. “Who are
you?”

“Gwalaes, my lord.”

“What happened to my men? Richard…”

“Sir Richard is here. The rest of your men
are here, my lord.” She put her free hand on his forehead and on
the side of his face. He was warm but she felt no trace of fever.
He wasn’t sweating or shivering.

Her touch appeared to calm him and the grip
on her wrist relaxed. For a moment they watched each other
intently. Finally his fingers loosened and his hand slid to his
side. “I’m thirsty.”

She brought over a cup of water and held it
to his lips. He gulped at it sloppily and half of the water ran
down the sides of his face but the act of swallowing didn’t seem to
be painful to him.

When he finished, he closed his eyes. She put
the cup down and gently patted his face dry with the end of her
sleeve.

His eyes struggled open briefly. “Thank you,”
he murmured. “You are kind…”

It was only afterwards that she realized with
a start that the Norman had spoken to her in French—and she had
answered him the same way.

She heard the thunder of hooves behind her
and she began to run. She didn’t have to look around to know that
it was the handsome Norman, the one who hated her, who chased her.
Had the injured man died after all? Her mind struggled to think as
she forced her legs to move faster. He’d been fine, breathing
easily, when she had told Sir Richard that she was going back to
the storehouse for fresh herbs and bandages and to sleep for
several hours. She had told him she would return when her daughter
came to wake her after Prime. What had happened during those few,
short hours?

The pounding grew louder. The warhorse seemed
to have no problem negotiating the dense terrain of the forest. The
knight was gaining on her. Already she was running as fast as she
could, her skirts catching around her legs. Her lungs were
bursting; all she could think to do was pray, so she did. Then she
heard the knight call to her and even though it meant slowing her
pace, she turned around. She gasped. To her horror, it wasn’t Sir
Richard bearing down on her but her husband, his face cold and
distant but for the satisfied smirk which creased his mouth. He
hung low on the saddle and reached out his hand.

“Mama! Mama!” The hand which
grabbed and shook her roughly did not have a grip like a vise but
all the ineffectual muscles of a small child. And it
was
a child who had taken
hold of her; it was Bronwen. She opened her eyes, her heart still
pounding from the residual effect of the nightmare.

“Wake up!” her daughter commanded sternly.
“There’s a big man at the door.”

“Who?”

“The strange man with the pretty horses.”

Bronwen was used to the abbey’s two ancient
mares and had expressed pleasure at the sight of the six Norman
stallions, tall, fine-boned and decked out with massive,
high-backed saddles and fancy tack. She had never before seen such
finely dressed men, either, and had stared in awe at their gleaming
swords, short hair and expensive cloaks.

Gwalaes had merely fallen fully-clothed on
the small pallet she shared with her daughter upon her return from
the sickroom, too exhausted to care about changing. She threw a
shawl over her shoulders, ran her fingers through her hair and
retied the ribbon which held it back and pushed aside the cloth
partition which separated the little sleeping alcove from the rest
of the room. Delamere was standing with his back towards her, idly
inspecting the contents of a pot on her worktable.

“Is something wrong?” she said.

The knight spun around. “Gwalaes.
No—nothing’s wrong. As a matter of fact, everything is fine. Lord
William awoke for a short time and spoke to me. He’s still very
weak but his mind was sound and he didn’t complain of pain.”

“He will shortly,” she said. Bronwen came up
behind her and held on to her skirts while she gazed shyly at the
Norman. “As he regains full consciousness. I have herbs here that
when steeped in boiling water will lessen the pain.”

Delamere rubbed his hand over his beard.
“Actually, that’s why I’ve come. If you give me these herbs, I can
take them back to Rhuddlan. We’re leaving now.”

She was so shocked by his
words that her fear of him evaporated. “Sir Richard, that’s
impossible!” she said. “It’s out of the question! Your lord needs
bed rest for at least the next three days.” The knight shook his
head. “He
cannot
be
moved!”

“He
must
be moved, Gwalaes,” Delamere
said, quietly but firmly. “Rhuddlan is safer than St. Mary’s. If
the Welsh who ambushed us discover we’re here, they’ll come in full
force and we won’t stand a chance. And it would only mean putting
the abbey at needless risk,” he added, when she started again to
protest. He glanced pointedly at Bronwen. “You don’t want that to
happen.”

Her mouth clamped shut abruptly. No, nothing
must happen to her daughter. The Norman lord would have to take his
chances with his men.

She untangled Bronwen’s hand and went to a
corner cupboard in which she kept jars of various dried herbs. She
found the chamomile and shook out a generous portion onto a clean
square of linen. She tied the ends of the linen together and held
it out to the Norman.

“This is chamomile. It’s quite safe. Whenever
Lord William complains of pain, have someone brew a spoonful in a
cup’s worth of freshly drawn water and then make him drink the
entire mixture. If he doesn’t like the taste you can add honey
until it suits him.”

Delamere took the bundle and slipped it
inside his tunic, adjusting his cloak so that it fell over his
chest and left his right arm exposed. “Thank you, Gwalaes.” He
hesitated. “And thank you for what you’ve already done,” he added
awkwardly. “You saved his life. I’m grateful. I’ll see that the
abbey is properly rewarded.”

Gwalaes stood in the doorway with Bronwen and
watched Delamere walk away. She hoped the weather was a propitious
omen of Lord William’s recovery, for the rain had stopped during
the night and with the exception of a few scattered puffs of white,
the sky was deep blue and the sun was bright. Perhaps, she thought,
shooing Bronwen inside and closing the door against the cold air,
there was someone at Rhuddlan who would look after him and make
sure he remained in bed and would change the wraps around the
wound…if, of course, he survived the rigorous journey back to the
castle.